


it's best if we both stay (ripples in the pond remix)

by friendlyneighbourhoodteacakes



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Original Timeline Movies)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Cats, Charles Xavier in a Wheelchair, Darkest Timeline, Fluff and Angst, Genocide, Holocaust Survivor Erik Lehnsherr, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutant Husbands, Mutant Politics, Mutant Suppression, Post-X-Men: Dark Phoenix (2019), Post-X-Men: Days of Future Past, Post-X-Men: The Last Stand (2006), References to Depression, Some Humor, Swearing, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25001581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlyneighbourhoodteacakes/pseuds/friendlyneighbourhoodteacakes
Summary: Eventually, whether it takes thirty years or closer to fifty, Erik always chooses to stay with Charles.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 40
Kudos: 82
Collections: X-Men Remix 2020





	1. fifty years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princess_fluffle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_fluffle/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Ripples in the Pond](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7382875) by [princess_fluffle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_fluffle/pseuds/princess_fluffle). 



> This is a remix of specifically Chapter 3 of 'Ripples in the Pond'. I hope you all enjoy! ♥ I've tried to be thorough with tagging, but please let me know if I've missed anything. You could read the two chapters of this fic as two separate stories, but they make a little more sense read together.
> 
> Thank you to my proofreader and everyone who cheered me on writing this ♥

**-o-o-o-**

_2008_

Erik, once upon a time, had thought it was a certainty he’d die long, long before Charles. It wasn’t something he’d thought about on a regular basis. It just seemed fairly obvious, given the fact _he_ was the one constantly fighting on makeshift battlefields against law enforcement and X-Men alike, while Charles was safely tucked away within the walls of his mansion. That, and he’d spent a good portion of his life locked in prisons where the meals were little more than slop. The ache of hunger is something he’s known nearly his entire life, of course, but as he’s grown older, hunger has made him feel weaker, and there were moments behind plastic walls when he thought he’d fade away before seeing the light of day again.

He feels his age so keenly now, and has from the moment the X-Men – or what remained of them – succeeded in hitting him with that godforsaken cure. Two years on, his powers are returning, but it’s a slow, agonising process. Even if his powers were at full capacity, he knows he’d still feel this bone-weary, this _ancient_. It’s nothing to do with the cure, not really; it’s because Charles is dead and for the first time in nearly fifty years, he feels utterly alone. 

“ _You’re not alone_ ,” Charles had said, eons ago now, yet the words are still imprinted in his mind. He’ll never forget them, not for as long as he lives. “ _Erik, you’re not alone_.” 

By now, it’s common knowledge the cure isn’t permanent, but Erik feels more alone than he has in years. Sometimes, he finds himself closing his eyes and hoping, wishing, and damn it, even praying to a god he stopped believing in long ago that he’ll feel the brush of Charles’ mind against his. He craves Charles’ touch like a drug, but when he does, occasionally, trick himself into believing he can feel Charles in his mind, it only brings pain and no sort of relief. 

Charles is gone, the Brotherhood out of his hands, and Mystique… well, he’s heard no word since he abandoned her. Erik knows he’s alone and who does he have to blame for that except himself? It’d be easy to push the blame onto Charles, or onto the humans, but the reality is, everything he’s lost, he’s lost because of the monster he’s let himself become. 

Perhaps, if he’d tried harder, he could’ve been by Charles’ side all along. Perhaps then, they’d both be alive now – old and weathered, but side-by-side, fighting the good fight. 

He’s too tired to fight alone and too alone to put up any sort of decent fight. Each day, mutants become more oppressed, the work Charles devoted his life to slowly being undone. It makes Erik’s heart ache, but he’s no politician. He’s not even a freedom fighter any more, not really; all he is, when it comes down to it, is an old man who’s not truly a mutant, nor wholly human, at a chessboard in a park. 

The park’s cold and his checkered fleece offers little in terms of warmth. The bite of the chill makes him feel something, at least, and he’ll take that over the emptiness in his chest any day. He’s been following the same routine for the last two years and the others who regularly visit the park know him by name, now. Rather, they know him by _a_ name, because he isn’t stupid enough to go by Erik Lehnsherr. 

They call him Max. 

Those who have the guts to play a chess match against him, he calls foolish. Nobody poses any sort of real challenge. None of them compare to Charles. If any of them suspect his true identity, none of them have said as much. When people think of Magneto, they think of a helmet and cape, not a fleece and flat cap, so it seems unlikely anybody would ever associate the frail figure he cuts with the mutant terrorist from the news. 

With a heavy sigh, Erik sits at the same table he always chooses and sets the chessboard, black on his side, white on the other. During winter, the park isn’t nearly as busy as it is in the other seasons, the cold deterring the majority of people. That’s fine. Most days, he plays alone anyway. It just gives his mind something other than life to mull over, his hands something to do aside from twisting pieces of metal into pointless shapes. 

The fingerless gloves he’s wearing remind him of Charles’, the ones he wore back in the sixties when they were young and silly and ready to take on the world. Back then, he’d mocked him, seeing little point in gloves with no fingers. Now, he appreciates them. They offer just a little bit of warmth, while simultaneously allowing him extra control over his mutation. Charles wasn’t right about everything, far from it, but he wishes he could talk to him now and tell him, “ _Okay, yes, maybe you were right about the benefits of fingerless gloves._ ” 

Then Charles would laugh and say, “ _I was right about a great deal more than just that._ ” 

And Erik would scoff and say, “ _Certainly not about the behaviour of humans and the future of mutantkind_.” As he sits, he’s painfully aware of the fact mutants are all being registered, their X-gene identified from birth, even if nobody will admit to it. He’s conscious of the increasing numbers of unemployed, murdered, and homeless mutants across the world as people grow even more intolerant of their kind, and, of course, of mutant-exclusive prisons slowly beginning to open up throughout the US. In time, other countries will open prisons like those, too. _Prisons_ , he knows, is too kind a word. 

His brothers and sisters are going to be rounded up and slaughtered, all over again. A tiny, selfish part of him hopes he’ll be dead before the worst of it, because the thought of being somewhere like _that_ again makes his entire body shiver, his stomach shrivel and go cold, and his throat grow tight. 

He lets out a slow exhale and opens his eyes, which he barely registered closing to begin with. He moves his hand, ready to finally move the first white pawn across the board, and then, quite suddenly, realises there’s another already hovering above the board. 

He doesn’t dare to look up, not even when the person sitting opposite him says, “You and I both know you’re far too stubborn to die while your fellow mutants are suffering, Erik.” The voice is familiar, unmistakable, tinged with humour and fondness and a touch of exasperation. He can hear the smile playing at Charles’ lips. He’s never needed to look at him to know when he’s smiling. 

As if he hasn’t just come back from the dead, Charles moves his knight to f3. The silence between them is prolonged. There are no words. 

Charles is dead.

Except for the fact he isn’t. 

Eventually, Erik forces himself to lift his head and stares across the board at Charles, who’s wearing the hint of a smile, his blue eyes as bright as ever and sparkling in the winter sun. He looks exactly the same as the day he died, but he’s whole and not breaking into minuscule pieces, and he’s wearing a cardigan, not a suit, as if he’s thirty and not rapidly approaching eighty. 

“You’re a bastard,” is the first thing Erik says to him, scowling deeply as he moves a pawn to d6. 

“What a rude way to greet an old friend.” 

Erik grits his teeth and glares at him. “You died. I saw it, with my own two eyes, and here you are, pretending to be so _mysterious_ and enigmatic, when really, you’re just a bastard.” He isn’t stupid enough to think he’s hallucinating. He can feel the metal of the wheelchair. If his brain was going to conjure up a figment, he doubts it’d get Charles so right and go to the effort of making his chair feel so real when his powers are weak as it is. He would’ve felt it approaching, if not for that, unless Charles has been meddling with his mind just to have the element of surprise on his side.

Bastard. 

“Aren’t I?”

“Aren’t you what?”

“Mysterious and enigmatic. You want to ask. I can sense it,” Charles says, still perfectly calm, still smiling at him, like they don’t have an awful lot of drama and betrayal to pick apart and get over before they can really call each other _friends_ again. 

Of course he wants to ask. Erik glares a little longer and fights the urge to snap or shout. “Fine. How are you alive?” he asks. “How are you alive, when Jean _ripped you into nothing_?” 

“Well.” Charles pauses to take his turn again. Then he says, and at least he has the decency to sound sheepish as he does so, “It’s actually a bit complicated and the morality of it all is questionable, so it might be best to wait to explain.” 

Erik grumbles to himself and moves a piece, the board slowly beginning to lose his interest. “Like I said,” he says, “You’re a bastard.” Not that it particularly matters. Even if he’s stubbornly not showing it, he’s never been so happy to see Charles. He catches Charles’ smile widening and snaps, “Just because I don’t have my helmet doesn’t mean you’re free to invade my mind, thank you.” 

The smile vanishes from Charles’ face in an instant and he rolls his eyes. “I’m not invading your mind, Erik. You know how bloody hard it is when people are projecting so strongly,” he says. It’s an unnecessary reminder and Erik grumbles again. “You are allowed to express your emotions verbally. I wouldn’t tell anybody you have feelings.” 

“I’d rather not inflate your ego,” Erik says, mostly to buy himself a little more time. 

“Trust me when I say my ego has been knocked down a significant number of pegs in recent years. One little comment from you won’t stop my head fitting through a door.” 

“Fine,” Erik says. He’s silent for another moment, before he says, in little more than a mutter, “I missed you. I’m very glad you’re here.”

It’s easy to pinpoint the exact moment Charles decides he won’t let him off that easily and Erik has to resist the urge to groan. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. I’m nearly eighty. You’ll have to speak up,” the bastard says, eyes still twinkling. 

Louder, Erik repeats, “I missed you.” He enunciates each word very clearly as he adds, “Life has been absolutely miserable since you died and I am incredibly glad that you’re here.” He pauses. “Even if you are a total bastard,” he tags on the end, to be certain Charles won’t think he’s forgiven him entirely for just showing up alive like it’s no big deal. He lets his eyes fall back to the board, which sits forgotten between them. 

“Do you still love me?”

That makes Erik’s eyes snap back up immediately and all he can do for a few seconds is stare at Charles, his mouth hanging open. They haven’t said anything like _I love you_ since the sixties. “Don’t be obtuse, Charles,” he says. He swallows hard and tries to draw Charles’ attention back to the board by gesturing to it, then tries to look anywhere but at Charles’ piercing eyes. 

“Erik,” Charles says. His voice is softer as he repeats the question, “Do you still love me?” 

Erik swallows again and closes his eyes. Then he takes a slow breath and opens them again. “Yes, Charles. You know I do. I’ve never stopped loving you, even if I sometimes... “ He isn’t one to fidget, but he shifts in his seat now, because he hasn’t been so open with somebody in so long. He hasn’t said words like _I love you_ in so long. But the world’s on the verge of chaos and Charles is alive and maybe, now, he can think about more than just mutants taking over the world. That isn’t what he wants any more; he just wants mutants to _survive_. “I’ve been cruel to you, these last few years in particular. I put the Brotherhood and my goals above anything else.” 

The silence drags on for so long, for a moment, even though he can sense Charles’ chair and see him right there in front of him, Erik does actually wonder if he’s a hallucination after all. Then another smile spreads across Charles’ face and he says, “Good,” as if Erik just told him the weather was going to be pleasant today or something much more mundane than a love confession. 

“I’m glad you think so,” Erik huffs, wishing they could get on with the chess game instead of dragging this conversation any further out. He isn’t going to go and do something stupid like ask if Charles still loves him back; maybe he does, but after everything Erik’s done to him in the last forty-plus years, he’d be stupid if he does. 

“So then, you’ll come back to the mansion with me and help us?” Charles asks, finally reaching to move another piece across the board. 

“Us?” Erik asks, pointlessly, really, but there’s no harm in being clear.

“Myself and the X-Men. Life’s gone a bit pear-shaped for mutants. We all know where this is going to lead if we don’t do anything. The restrictions on mutants grow harsher every day, even with Hank as an ambassador to the UN.” 

“For some reason, I don’t think the X-Men are going to be keen on having Magneto in their house, Charles,” Erik says, tone dry. 

“It’s my house, not theirs. Besides, I’ve had nearly two years to accustom them all to the idea,” Charles says, waving a hand dismissively. 

The number is what makes Erik pause. “Two years?” he asks. 

“Since I came back from the dead, yes. I’ve been working on convincing them we need all the help we can get,” Charles says, like that’s the part that’s an issue. 

“You’ve been alive for almost this entire time and you - only show up _now_ ?” Erik demands, incredulous. “I’ve been - here - in a park, wallowing - for _two years_ \- and you’ve been doing what, exactly? Popping wheelies in your new chair?” 

“Well, no, Erik, I’ve been recovering. It’s actually a rather taxing process, coming back from the dead and I –” 

“You let me think you were dead for two years, you absolute - you complete - _arse_ \- do you have any idea what that’s like? You couldn’t even give me a mental nudge to let me know you weren’t dead?” 

“I tried reaching out a few times, Erik. You always pushed me out. Or didn’t acknowledge me at all.” Charles folds his hands in his lap and watches him carefully. “I’m very sorry you’ve spent all this time alone, my friend, but don’t they say it’s better to be late than to never show at all?” 

Erik clenches his jaw and stares back at him. He’d rather have Charles here two years later than never at all, yes. Plus, he can think of times he felt _somebody_ brushing against his mind; he’d just never thought it might be anything other than his mind playing tricks on him in its old age. It’s with reluctance he gives in and admits, “Yes. I’m still glad you’re here. You arse.” 

“So come to the mansion,” Charles says quietly. He reaches a hand across the table, palm up. An offer. “Come home, Erik. Stay with me. We can face this together.” 

_Home_. Erik hasn’t had a home in so long. He has a shitty flat and this park and no goal and barely any powers. It really isn’t that hard to reach for Charles’ hand, to take it and feel the calloused skin, then squeeze gently and say, “Okay.” 

“For the record,” Charles says, as he squeezes Erik’s hand back. “I do still love you, too.” 

There’s not really any time to reply to that, to process, because a moment later, Nightcrawler is there. He touches both of their hands, and in a poof of blue smoke, they all vanish, appearing only a moment later in the mansion together for the first time in far too many years. 

**-o-o-o-**

Despite Charles’ claims about preparing the X-Men for his arrival, they seem very bitter about Erik’s presence at the mansion. He can’t really fault them for that, when he’s been their enemy for so long; Charles probably just seems a crazy old fool who hasn’t thought any of this through (and maybe he is). 

The group has changed, understandably, what with so many of the original X-Men dead. There’s Storm and Rogue and Iceman, then Nightcrawler, who doesn’t seem to want to be lumped in with the group at all. The others, Erik doesn’t really care enough to find out their names. Most people in the mansion give him a wide berth, only glaring at him from the safety of the opposite side of a room. There’s no sign of Charles’ guard dog, the Wolverine, and he doesn’t ask where he’s gone. The further away he is, the better. He’s not sure he’d be able to resist the urge to rip his skeleton from his body. 

“Darling,” Charles scolds, patting the empty space on the bed beside himself. It’s funny how quickly Charles has fallen into pet names, how easily they’ve started sleeping together again, after everything. “You wouldn’t harm Logan. You know he did only what was necessary at the time.” 

With a sigh, Erik crosses the room, abandoning the list of potential contacts he’s started to construct for the night. “That doesn’t mean I’m happy about it,” he huffs, pulling back the duvet and slipping into bed next to Charles, who puts the book he’s reading aside. 

“We need all the help we can get. Logan’s assistance included, if he’s ever feeling up to leaving Yukon,” Charles says, shuffling closer and settling himself against Erik’s chest. The first time he’d done that, just the other night, Erik had been so startled he’d almost fallen out of bed. Now, it’s a comfort. It’s been so long since he’s relished in the touch of another person the way he relishes in Charles’ touch now. It makes him feel more warm and loved than he has in decades.

“What the hell is he doing in Yukon?”

“Grieving, Erik,” Charles says, then he tuts and closes his eyes. “The least we can do is give him some time to live in peace and process his grief. He’ll be back when he’s ready.”

“The man’s practically immortal,” Erik grumbles. “By the time he’s ready, every other mutant could be long dead.” 

Charles glances up at him, giving him that exasperated look he’s so well mastered. “Erik. He wouldn’t just hide away while the rest of us suffer. He’ll be ready when he’s ready and I’m certain that won’t be long from now. Besides, I thought you wanted to rip him apart if you saw him again.” 

“That doesn’t mean I would. Even I can recognise the usefulness of somebody with his mutation.” 

The exasperation is still present in Charles’ expression as he says, “Our usefulness is determined by more than our mutations, Erik. Logan is very passionate about keeping those he cares about safe. He’ll be here, in his own time.” 

Erik resists the urge to grumble a little more and instead wraps an arm around Charles and closes his eyes. “I hope you’re right,” he says. 

“I’m right about an awful lot of things.” 

_Schatz_ , Erik thinks, _I really wish you were_. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, he supposes, and Charles had the potential to be right about the acceptance of mutants before everything went to hell. 

They could’ve had the life Charles hoped for, in another universe, or even another lifetime. Recent history has ruined the world for all of mutantkind. He wishes he could believe there’s still time to change it, but deep down, he suspects it won’t take long for mutants to be gathered up and killed. 

At least he’s going to have Charles by his side. At least he’ll be by Charles’ side. It’s only the tiniest comfort in such turbulent times, but right now, all of them need the smallest comforts they can find. 

“I like your pet names for me,” Charles murmurs, sounding half-asleep as he lies against Erik’s chest. “You’re a softie, deep down, Mr Lehnsherr.” 

“Hush and go to sleep,” Erik says. He can’t help the warmth that blooms in his chest nonetheless. So what if he has fallen into the old habit of using pet names with Charles? An old man is allowed a little bit of softness, surely. 

“Oh, absolutely not,” Charles says and when Erik peeks down at him, the man’s smiling slyly up at him, looking ridiculously attractive. Perhaps he isn’t as sleepy as his voice made him sound, because he follows that up with, “I was thinking we could have a lovely shag and forget the world’s problems for a while.”

Well, what sort of partner would Erik be to deny Charles that? They have so much lost time to make up for and he’ll be damned before letting rapidly approaching eighty ruin that.

**-o-o-o-**

_2009_

“You can’t seriously still think polite conversation is the answer to our problems.” Erik gestures to the television with the remote. Its screen is black now, because some of the children in the rec room were getting stressed by the discussions of inhibitor collars for mutants in police and government custody, for mutant children taking exams, for any mutant wishing to testify in court, and more. Who knows how long it’ll be until they all need to wear collars _always_? Storm had the sense to encourage the children to play elsewhere, as soon as it became obvious an argument was brewing between him and Charles, but it still doesn’t seem wise to switch the TV back on. Erik has heard enough. 

“I never said I was going to be polite,” Charles says, sounding as infuriatingly patient as ever. “But I _am_ going to DC to talk with Congress, Erik. I won’t sit idly by as they try to suppress our powers.” 

“They aren’t just suppressing our powers. They want to collar us like dogs. It’s dehumanisation. You know what this is. It’s another step towards genocide.” Erik’s seething. How can he not be? It’s happening right before their eyes and it seems too many humans are unwilling to acknowledge the blatant parallels to Nazi Germany. They’ll pussyfoot around it until it’s too late. He refuses to do the same.

“And I’m going to try and make them understand that and actually recognise that what they’re doing is wrong.” 

“You’re as naive as you were in 1962,” Erik snaps. He tosses the remote control down on the table, causing it to skid and nearly fall off the other end. 

Hurt flickers across Charles’ face and disappears just as quickly as it appeared. “I won’t jump to violence,” he says, still calm. “We talk, first. We have to prove we’re peaceful to minimise fear. Violence is a last resort.” 

“We don’t need to prove anything, Charles. Fucking hell. Nothing gives them the right to kill us.” It takes Erik a moment to take a deep breath and calm himself somewhat before he continues, “I hate the thought of you talking to them alone. You aren’t invincible. People have been killed for talking. Being peaceful means nothing if it’s already been decided that you’re wrong.” 

“So come with me.”

Erik snorts. 

“I’m serious. Come with me. I’d be safer, you can’t deny. You’d feel better, I’m sure. Besides, your words could be more impactful than mine.”

“I’m not a pawn for you to use, Charles,” Erik says, a warning note in his tone. It’s not hard to guess why Charles thinks his words might have a greater impact. The numbers inked on his arm are visible now, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, and he knows Charles is conscious of them too. He’s wondered how mutants will be marked, ever since he realised he wasn’t the only one on the planet. Now, he suspects the collars will be the answer, perhaps will even be soldered shut around their necks so they’re as lifelong as the tattoo on his arm. “I won’t act as your poster boy. And there’s no reason to think they’d let a mutant terrorist waltz into the Capitol Building.” 

“Then don’t talk. Be my companion, my bodyguard, whichever you’d prefer to be called,” Charles says, insistent and stubborn as ever. “You’ll feel better if you’re there, I know it.” 

Erik heaves a sigh. The truth is, Charles is right. He’ll feel better if he can at least protect him, even if he doesn’t think his method is going to work. The time for talking has long since passed. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But I’d love to know how you intend to disguise me. You really think they won’t force you to wear one of those hellish collars? They won’t risk you messing with their minds.” 

“No need to worry,” Charles says, looking considerably brighter now that he has Erik’s agreement. It was probably what he wanted and planned all along. Arsehole. “I already have a plan for that.” 

Of course he does. Erik suppresses a smile and just gives another long sigh instead. 

**-o-o-o-**

Charles’ plan, it turns out, is to temporarily dye his hair brown and to give him a fake nose, crafted by some genius in the mansion, which somehow changes the appearance of his nose entirely. It does, impressively, change his face completely. A person’s nose has an impact on their whole profile and until he sees the prosthetic in action, Erik just scoffs at that claim. Once it’s on his face, he realises that Charles’ plan actually has a chance of working. How would anybody recognise him as Magneto? 

Nobody does; the two of them waltz into the Capitol Building as two innocent old friends, a fake name and job title of ‘nurse’ preventing too much questioning. 

The collar around Charles’ neck makes him feel sick. They’d both been tested for an X-gene at the door, as if they didn’t know exactly what Charles’ mutation was. Erik’s mutation is temporarily hidden by a potent serum Hank made, similar to the cure but not nearly as long-lasting, which will be out of his system by the time Charles is on the Congress floor. It’s the only way he could avoid a collar of his own and keep Charles safe. 

His powers are nearly as strong as they were before Charles’ death. Since they reunited, he’s gained so much control, mostly, he’s sure, thanks to Charles’ encouragement and assurance, just like when he’d first helped him discover his full potential in 1962.

Erik hates all of this. He hates the fact any of it is necessary. Mutants deserve so much better.

It all goes about as well as can be expected. The Congressmen-and-women bombard Charles with question after question, point after point, barely giving him the chance to actually speak. 

“Would you let lions wander the streets without some sort of collar?” one Congressman demands. “Without some way of ensuring they could be controlled?” 

“No,” Charles says, and Erik has no idea how he manages to sound so calm, even now. “But we aren’t lions. We’re humans, just like you, albeit with slightly different genes. We aren’t so different.” 

There are mutters and scoffs before another man says, “This coming from the man who could make us do anything, if not for that collar.” 

“You assume I have no morals,” Charles says. “Mutants are capable of self-control. Our abilities don’t mean we’re irresponsible or violent individuals.” 

It goes on and on. For every question, Charles has an answer, but for every answer, they have yet another question. It’s clear they just aren’t interested in compromising on their decision to give all law enforcement bodies access to mutant inhibitor collars, and obviously they’re unwilling to destroy the collars altogether. 

“At the end of the day, mutations are weapons. We wouldn’t allow you to bring a gun in here. Why would we allow any other weapon? Good day, Doctor Xavier.” 

It’s a dismissal. Already, security guards are stepping forwards to escort them out. The hypocrisy lies in the fact they all have guns at their hips. Erik resists the urge to break something. 

“It’s a choice to wield a gun,” Erik huffs quietly as they make their way out. Charles removes the collar as soon as possible and throws it on the floor rather than handing it to the guard standing with a hand outstretched. Then, he rolls over it, making it _crack_ beneath the wheel of his chair. 

There are reporters outside and as soon as they’re in sight, they begin to bombard Charles with questions. It’s a struggle to not snap their pens and break all of the cameras. 

“I only have one comment to make,” Charles says, his voice carrying across the gaggle of reporters easily. A hush falls and cameras snap. “I will not stand for injustice. Not today and not ever. Our mutations are part of our genetic makeup. I will strive for equality for mutants for the rest of my life. A failure today doesn’t mean we can’t win tomorrow. No further questions.” 

The reporters, of course, ignore the last part of his statement and immediately start shouting questions again. 

It doesn’t phase Charles. Erik focuses on his calmness to keep himself grounded, one hand on Charles’ shoulder as they leave the Capitol Building behind. 

**-o-o-o-**

Come morning, in big, red, ugly letters, _DIE PROFESSOR X_ and _MUTANT SCUM_ are painted on the garden walls of the school. They do their best to stop the children seeing it, but word travels fast around campus. Some of the older students volunteer to start scrubbing at it, but Erik can hardly see the point. By tomorrow, he knows there’ll just be more filth to clean up. 

“So this is what talking peacefully earns us,” Erik says bitterly, tossing aside another newspaper. 

The headlines are all pushing the same idea: _PROFESSOR X DECLARES WAR ON HUMANITY._ How they’ve managed to twist Charles’ words into something unrecognisable, he has no idea. But if it’s war they want, Erik is more than happy to give them it. 

Charles sips his tea. His hands are wrinkled, but there’s a youthful spark in his eyes. 

Wary, Erik eyes him from the other side of the coffee table. “What are you thinking?” he asks. He knows that look, that twinkle that only appears when Charles has a big, ambitious idea. It doesn’t give him much comfort. If anything, it just makes him suspicious. Charles’ big ideas are so often _too ambitious_ , the school itself aside. 

“I’m thinking, my friend, you were rather right all along,” Charles says. He sips at his tea again, looking serene. How he’s still so calm, Erik has no idea. “It’s time we start to plan for war.” 

_It’s too late_ , Erik wants to say. _We’ve already lost_. The humans have too much of a head start, surely. What chance do they have of catching up? He’s silent as he stares at Charles. 

It’s hard to imagine Charles willing to go to _war_. For a moment, Erik thinks he might be joking.

“We haven’t lost until we’re all dead,” Charles replies, despite the words only being in Erik’s head. He’s grown more comfortable with Charles so easily plucking out his thoughts. It’s his mutation, he’s finally realised. He was a hypocrite for insisting Charles not use his mutation for such a long period of time. “Even then, I’m sure we could probably still win.” 

“You’re insane,” Erik breathes. “How are you still so optimistic, you ridiculous man?” 

“Force of habit. Besides, one of us has to be. Imagine how miserable we’d make everyone otherwise.”

Erik snorts, then moves around the coffee table and sits on the edge of it so he can lean in and kiss Charles comfortably. His lips are warm and taste of tea, something Erik is more than familiar with by now. “Well, you certainly keep me from being too miserable,” he says once he’s pulled away. He turns to look in the direction of the window. The sunlight streaming in gives the illusion of peace, but he knows they’re on the verge of something else entirely. 

“So,” Charles says, after a moment of just sitting in blissful quiet with Erik, also looking out of the window. When Erik looks at him though, Charles looks back, with a wicked glint in his eyes. “How do we begin to plan for war?” 

**-o-o-o-**

_2010_

“Thank you, Hank.” 

Charles’ expression is grim as he hangs the phone up. Then he starts to lift himself out of bed and into his wheelchair. “What’s happening?” Erik asks. It’s nearly midnight; a call from Hank had been entirely unexpected. It’s obvious he had nothing good to tell Charles. When the phone rings late at night, it’s very rarely anything good. 

“As of tomorrow morning, mutants in the US have no legal right to own properties valued at more than one million dollars,” Charles says. “We need to leave. Trask industries are already planning to put in a claim for the mansion. I’ve no doubt they’ll bring the Sentinels to help evict us.” He has absolutely no intention of putting the children in danger. This is what they’ve planned for. It was going to happen eventually. Rumours have been circulating for months, ever since China and then Australia began enforcing similar rules; in Italy, mutants aren’t permitted to own any property at all. 

Erik sits up too and rubs at the bridge of his nose. The only children left at the school are those with no parents or whose parents didn’t want them back – for some, knowing your child is on the verge of being whisked off to some containment facility is too much. It’s disgraceful, disgusting, but Erik would sooner have those children with them than anywhere near their gutless parents. They’ve already sorted the kids into groups; a couple of teachers per handful of children are going to take them somewhere safe. Charles has bought who-knows-how-many safehouses under a variety of aliases in other countries for exactly this scenario.

There aren’t any children coming with them and Storm. What they plan to do is too dangerous for any young child to witness or be a part of. He knows the choice pains Charles but it’s undoubtedly the most sensible one. He refuses to make child soldiers a part of this. 

**-o-o-o-**

Within only a couple of hours, the mansion is empty and they’re in a safehouse in the border region of Canada. It’s only them and Storm, with plans to bring more into their little group as soon as possible, if they can get anybody else interested in fighting instead of just hiding. 

It’s going to be a quiet fight. Subtlety is key. Act too soon, too violently, and they’ll all be dead before they can even get started. Somehow, they need to drag Logan into this. The man probably doesn’t even realise the difficulties mutants are beginning to face everyday, because the government is frustratingly sneaky about it. _It’s not that bad_ , the media keep insisting. _It’s to keep us all safe._

What a load of bullshit. 

That night, he hugs Charles close in bed and Charles hugs him back, and he hopes, no matter how this ends, Charles will be here with him when it does. 

**-o-o-o-**

_2011_

Their little group grows slowly. It’s only them, the first few months, then Charles begins to use his new – miniaturised – version of Cerebro and manages to attract a few more mutants to their safehouse. 

Amongst them is Warren Worthington III, or rather Angel, more passionate and vocal than ever about his opposition to a cure.

Then there’s Peter Maximoff, who goes by Quicksilver and is faster than just about anything. The name rings a bell and when he’s asked, Quicksilver just grins and says, “Yeah, I’m that kid who ruined any chance of mutants participating in sporting events. You know, back in the 70s.” 

That must be it. Erik still can’t quite put his finger on _why_ he looks so familiar though. 

“There’s something about Peter,” he muses to Charles one day, as they’re sitting going over the blueprints of another facility, a bottle of scotch between them. Charles gives him one of his looks, the one that heavily implies he knows more than he’s letting on. 

“He’s a pain in the arse,” Charles says, but his voice is full of fondness. In fairness, they’ve had to make a lot more trips for food supplies since Quicksilver joined them three months ago. “Nearly as annoying as you,” he adds, more teasingly. “Maybe you see yourself in him.” 

That’s definitely not it, but it does make Erik think. He hums. “Are you really going to let them go to the protest tomorrow?” he asks. Quicksilver and Angel and a few of the others – they all want to go to the protest, organised to take place outside of the X-Mansion, now a base of operations for Trask Industries as they work to create a better _cure_. There are meant to be hundreds of mutants going, all determined to make a point of how they don’t need a cure. 

They’re right, of course, but it’s a little close to the enemy to attempt any sort of peaceful protest, in Erik’s opinion. He prefers working from the safehouse, helping Charles to formulate plans to help others to raid mutant prisons, their combined knowledge proving to be a valuable asset. So far, they’ve helped to rescue, by their estimate, around two hundred mutants. On top of that, they bombard governments worldwide with anonymous letters, drown social media with posts, and collect every scrap on information they can to use against the enemy.

It’s not enough, but it’s progress, and it’s helping build trust with other pockets of resistance groups across the globe. 

“They’re all adults, capable of making their own decisions. As long as this safehouse isn’t compromised, they can do whatever they’d like. Besides, peaceful protesting is important. I’d go with them, if we weren’t amongst the most wanted mutants.” 

The government has wanted to put collars on them for at least a year now, but more so on Charles. That’s a testimony to how scared they are of him, in Erik’s opinion. They’d have nothing to fear at all if their opinions weren’t so _wrong_. Hell, Erik wishes Charles could just change their minds. He’s more than capable of it. 

Charles opens his mouth and Erik knows, by now, exactly what he’s going to say and sighs before stopping him going any further with, “I know, I know. They need to change their minds on their own because you won’t be around forever to influence them.” He pauses, then asks, “What about a _nudge_ in the right direction?” 

“Because beginning to publicly change their opinion seemingly out of nowhere won’t bring _any_ suspicion upon me,” Charles says dryly. He sips at the dregs of his scotch and quieter, adds, “Anyway, they’ve telepath-proofed the White House and the Capitol Building.”

That makes Erik pause for a beat. “How do you know?” he asks. 

“I tried to give them a _nudge_ not so long ago.” 

Of course he did. Charles keeps quiet about a lot. Heaving another sigh, Erik closes his eyes for a moment. “Suppose we can only keep doing what we’re doing, then, and hope the protesting helps some,” he says. 

“Mhm.” Charles pours them each another measure of scotch. After he’s pushed Erik’s glass towards him, he raises his own and Erik clinks his against it as Charles says, “Here’s hoping.” 

Hope’s about all they have, but with Charles around, it’s not so hard to think that might just be enough.

**-o-o-o-**

The live reports on TV cut off as soon as the violence begins to get out of hand. Instead, they play the same clips over and over again, of mutant protesters throwing some indistinguishable objects at police and inciting the violent turn of events. All the while, the news reporters drone on about how Sentinels are on the scene to ‘bring the protests under control’. This isn’t new information, but they keep repeating it. But they all saw what really happened; when the first Sentinel to arrive killed a mutant, the cameras went black. 

Quicksilver skids to a stop in the living room, his face streaked with dirt and blood and who knows what else and breathing heavily. For a long moment, Erik can only stare, and next to him, Charles is silent. “Where are the others?” Erik manages to ask when he finds his voice. 

Swallowing hard, Quicksilver’s eyes flick to the television. “That’s not what happened,” he says as the clip plays over again, of Angel launching something back at the police. “They threw the tear gas first. We were only throwing it back.” 

It makes sense that the footage has been cut in a specific way to push the political agenda of the humans. Erik lets out a huff and repeats, “Where are the others?”

Quicksilver’s face is flushed with shame and he sits down heavily in one of the armchairs. When Erik looks towards the hallway, he finds Storm standing there, watching the three of them. His question lingers in the air, going unanswered for so long, he suspects he could guess at what Quicksilver’s response is going to be and have an answer sooner.

“Dead. Some might be captured, but – I know Warren’s dead. It was the last thing I saw before I got out of there. Those goddamn things murdering him.” 

Silence fills the room for several long, long seconds. None of them move. 

“I should’ve been with you,” Storm says, breaking the silence, her expression unreadable. “Fuck. _Fuck_.” 

‘Fuck’ is about the only thing to say. “Then we’d only be three, not four,” Charles says. His hand is pressed against his face and he looks, in a word, wrecked. It’s a big loss. They were a group of ten. Now, they’re all the way back down to four. 

“We’re fucked,” Quicksilver says with a laugh that borders on hysterical. “We’re so completely fucked.” 

In a flash, he disappears from the room. Somewhere above them, his bedroom door slams. 

“He’s not wrong,” Storm mutters, bitterness and grief twisting her features. She turns sharply and seconds later, the front door shuts with such force, the whole house seems to shake. 

A shaky breath escapes Charles and Erik looks to him, swallowing hard. He wants to ask what the answer is. He knows the reality is, Charles is as clueless and lost as him. “We’ll regroup and be more cautious in the future,” he says. “No more protests like that, not without suitable preparation and more support.” 

“Protesting will never work without more humans on our side,” Charles says, grimacing. He rubs at his face then drops his hand to his lap. “And how are we meant to regroup? Regroup with _who_? We’re dying, Erik. We’re all dying.” He lets out a laugh of his own and bows his head. “Maybe I was a foolish old man all along.” 

He hates hearing Charles sounding so negative. He swallows again and gets to his feet, then comes to crouch in front of Charles, knees cracking as he does so. “You’re far from a fool, Charles. You’re the best man I know. I doubt any of us would be here without your optimism. We’re going to make the world a better place for all of mutantkind. You and I, we’re capable of _anything_ , as long as we’re together. We’re not giving up until we fix all of this.” He leans in, wrinkled hands raising to cup Charles’ cheeks. “We’re not giving up,” he repeats, voice firm, and then he presses his lips to Charles’. The kiss is returned instantly and he feels Charles’ calloused fingers stroking over his cheek. 

_We’re not giving up_ , Charles echoes in his head. 

As long as they keep saying that, it’s true, isn’t it?

**-o-o-o-**

_2013_

It’s very obvious Logan is attempting to glare him to death from the back of the car, but Erik won’t sink to his level and drill him with insults just yet. “You’ve missed a lot,” Charles says as he pulls out his iPad and offers it to Logan over the headrest before turning his attention back to the road ahead. It’s his job to make sure they don’t attract any undue attention ‘til they make it back to the safehouse from the airport. 

On the iPad, Erik knows, there are endless videos and photos and screenshots of articles to help Logan understand what the hell he’s missed while he was AWOL. First he was in Yukon, and then, apparently, up to some bullshit in Japan, and then having some sort of existential crisis in the Australian outback. 

_He’s back now. He’ll help_ , Charles says, not for the first time and likely not for the last. 

“You’ve missed a lot,” Erik says, with only a brief glance over his shoulder at Logan. It’s a bit like having a very angry kid in the backseat, what with the way he glares back at him. 

“Clearly, if we’re working with _you_ , bub. ‘Cause that’s worked so fuckin’ well for us in the last ten years, huh? How long ‘til you sell us out?” 

“Why don’t you have your tinman shut up for the rest of the car ride, Charles? I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself crumpling his entire skeleton into a tiny ball if I have to listen to him talk for another few hours.” 

“Behave, both of you,” Charles says. He tuts and looks back at Logan again. “We’re all mutants in this together, Logan. Things are different now.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll put my claws through your throat at the first sign of trouble,” Logan says, the threat quite obviously directed at Erik. 

Erik just scoffs and brushes the words off with, “One flick of my wrist and your arm will be bent back on itself.” 

“A lovely image. Now stop it, Erik.” Charles sighs and shakes his head before turning to Logan again. “As you can see, Logan, the situation is escalating on a daily basis. A new model of Sentinels is going live within weeks. Rumour has it they’re capable of adapting to tackle any and all mutations. It’s all very hush-hush, but we suspect they’ve captured Mystique and somehow harnessed her genes.” 

“Still think it sounds more like Darwin’s mutation,” Erik huffs. “Mystique’s mutation has never been _adaptation_. She’s a shapeshifter.” 

“We have no way of knowing exactly how many other mutants have had their genetics manipulated and stolen to create the technology, darling. For all we know, they could have a mutant like Darwin in one of their facilities,” Charles says and he then muses, “They could even have Darwin. You know, it simply doesn’t make any sort of sense that his body _wouldn’t_ adapt to Shaw’s attack –” 

“You’ve been saying that for the last fifty years, Schatz. Let it go,” Erik says with a sigh. 

He glances in the rearview mirror and catches Logan mouthing to himself, _Darling?_ Then he mouths _Schatz?_ Erik can hardly hold back a grin, glad to have caught him by surprise with their terms of endearment. 

“The point we’re trying to make, Logan, is that we need all the help we can get if we are to have any chance of fighting against this,” Charles concludes. “So, get up to date on everything. Everything you need is on the iPad, but if you have any questions, we’ll answer them back at the safehouse. Like I said earlier, Ororo and Peter are waiting for us there. I think Ororo is going to be very happy to see you.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” Logan says, flicking across the iPad’s screen. “Who is this Peter kid, anyway?”

“Quicksilver. Mutant who can move incredibly fast. Hardly a kid, Logan. He’s almost sixty.”

“You’re all kids to me,” Logan mutters. 

“And he doesn’t look sixty,” Erik adds, thinking Charles has misled Logan a bit with that age. “More like thirty. Part of his mutation. Anyway, he’s useful.” 

“Whatever you say. You got beer there?” 

“What do you take us for?” Charles asks. “We knew that’d be the easiest way to have you stay. Of course we do.” 

Logan grunts. “Good.” 

It seems he’s satisfied, at least for now. Erik just shakes his head a little and focuses again on the road, a little more confident that Logan won’t make an attempt to jump out of the moving vehicle any time soon. 

He might not be so happy when Erik proposes coating his claws in metal again, but they can cross that bridge when they get to it. 

**-o-o-o-**

_2015_

These weekly video calls with Hank, usually, bring Charles some peace of mind, but not this week. The stress is lining his face and it makes Erik just want to shut Hank off and take Charles to bed, to get his mind off everything, at least for five minutes. 

“It’s getting worse, Charles,” Hank says, exhaustion seeping into his voice. “I can send up the supplies you all need, this week, but – you’ve seen the news. They want me to resign as ambassador. I’m being accused of secretly working with mutant terrorist groups. God knows what they’ll do if they find out I _am_ helping the most wanted mutants on the planet.”

“But we aren’t terrorists,” Erik grinds out from the opposite side of the dining room table. 

“No,” Hank agrees, and Charles is nodding, too. “But you are wanted men and they’ll use anything they can against me. I’m thinking about coming to join you, to be honest. Disappear from the public eye entirely.” 

“Hold on for as long as you can,” Charles says. “We need a mutant within the government for as long as possible. Don’t put yourself in unnecessary danger, but just try to hold on.” 

“I will. You know I will, Charles. But God help us all, this isn’t getting any better any time soon.” 

“I know,” Charles sighs. His shoulders are slumped, like the weight of the world is resting upon them. With a sigh of his own, Erik stands and moves around the table to gently rub at his shoulders. “Be safe, Hank. We’ll talk again soon.”

**-o-o-o-**

It’s the last time they speak with Hank.

**-o-o-o-**

In total, Erik can probably only count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Charles cry, and this isn’t like any of those times. He cries for hours. He cries until he falls asleep and even then, his sorrow and grief and _guilt_ penetrate the minds of everyone in the safehouse, which isn’t much good on top of what they’re all already feeling. 

Every time he closes his eyes, Erik can see the news footage playing again. It’d been, in a single word, horrific. The media didn’t shy away from showing what they called _justice being served_ to a traitor, because they’re owned by Trask Industries, the way everything, these days, is owned by Trask Industries, from the government to bloody McDonald’s.

Henry McCoy was dragged from his house in the early hours of the morning, just the day after his last video call with them, and murdered in the street. By the time it ended, fur was indistinguishable from blood. 

“I can’t do this,” Charles whispers. Erik hadn’t even realised he’d woken up. 

There’s so little to say. Everything he wants to say sounds insufficient, even to his own ears. So, he braces himself, curls his body around Charles’, and says the only thing he can. 

“ _We_ can do this. For Hank, for Warren, for all the rest. Together, Charles. The way it always should’ve been.” 

It still sounds hollow, but Charles’ breath hitches and the crying, thankfully, doesn’t last too much longer. He isn’t sure if Charles has much faith in his words. For fuck’s sake, he’s not sure _he_ has any faith in his own words, but one of them has to be at least somewhat positive.

Charles is too lost in his grief to fill that role at the moment. That’s okay. For now, for as long as he needs to, Erik can, even if he just wants to rip the world apart and start it all over so that the world is a better place for them all. 

**-o-o-o-**

_2018_

Their relationship, for the most part, isn’t anybody else’s business. It’s obviously not a secret that he shares a bedroom with Charles, but there’s never been any sort of conversation explaining what is going on between them. Maybe they don’t really need to explain. They’re all adults. It’s not so difficult to assume what goes on in that bedroom and when nobody else is around. 

Erik has never really been one for public displays of affection, so what they have works for him. At least he isn’t being lambasted for not being straight, but that, in the grand scheme of things, is only a small comfort. 

“How rude of us,” Charles says as he idly flips through more news articles. “Did you know _mutants_ are to blame for the delay in legalising same-sex marriage? If only we hadn’t been keeping the government so busy with all our violence, it could’ve happened three or four years ago.” He scoffs and puts the iPad aside. It's cracked and the battery wears down faster than ever before, what with it getting old. There’s no way they can get a new one, because the new ones are all designed to set off an alert if an unregistered mutant attempts to use the Touch ID. So, the older model has to be enough. “Only for humans, anyway,” he adds, quieter. 

Tilting his head in curiosity, Erik glances over at Charles, who is drumming his fingers on the blanket tucked around his lap. “Would you want to get married?” he asks. “If we could?” 

“Well,” Charles says, cheeks flushing pink. “Yes. I think so. It’d be nice to call you my husband.” 

Erik hums. “Shame we’re both mutants, then,” he says. He can’t hold back a grin, because a little plan is already forming in his brain. As if he’s going to let them be told what they can and can’t do with regards to their own relationship by _human laws_. What Charles wants, he ought to get. “It’s only a piece of paper and some rings, anyway. We’re as good as husbands.”

“Oh, yes,” Charles quickly agrees, but the smile he offers in return doesn’t reach his eyes. Disappointment is etching itself into his expression. “We’re as good as husbands. That’s enough.”

After giving Charles’ cheek a peck, Erk gets to his feet. “I’ll get started on dinner, shall I? Do you think the others will mind pasta again?” 

Charles snorts. “It’s not as if we have many other options,” he says. “At least yours tastes more exciting than mine.” 

“And mine doesn’t get stuck to the bottom of the pan, which really does add to the appeal,” Erik teases. He kisses the top of Charles’ head one more time and heads for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Read something else, Schatz. Look at cute puppies. Take your mind off the humans for a bit.” 

There’s not really any ‘taking your mind off the humans’ for long, these days, but maybe it’ll be enough to help Charles relax for a little bit. 

**-o-o-o-**

It takes a lot of promising to do many, many chores to convince everyone to stay in their rooms or to make themselves scarce for the night so that Erik can have a private evening with Charles in the living room. The rings are heavy in his pocket, butterflies fluttering in his stomach, though he knew he didn’t have anything to be nervous about. There was no way Charles would say _no_. 

Probably. He probably wouldn’t say no. 

Fuck, Erik hopes he won’t say no.

“Darling,” Charles says, amusement lighting up his whole face. “There’s something on your mind.” 

“Ha. You’d know,” Erik says. He tags on a chuckle and pats Charles’ hand. “Nothing bad, I promise you that.” He hesitates for a moment before reaching into his pocket. “I was wondering, these last couple of days, whether you’d, ah, take me as your husband. Not lawfully, but we don’t care much for the law, do we? I should’ve thought of this sooner.” He opens up his hand, revealing the two rings. They’re simple, but inside, he’s carved the date they met, back in 1962, and the date they reunited, ten years ago now. 

Charles’ eyes flick up to his face. “Is that your proposal?” he asks, eyebrows raising, a smile threatening to tug his lips upwards. 

“Yes. That’s my proposal, you arse. I would very much like to marry you, right here, right now, and call you my husband from today and forevermore.” Erik lets out a huff. “And here are the rings I spent _hours_ crafting, thank you very much.” 

“Hours. Please,” Charles teases. 

“Fine. It only took me an hour, but it felt like longer. I was very careful,” he says, dropping one ring into Charles’ hand, which he’s holding out expectantly. 

So solemnly, after studying the ring for a very long moment, Charles says, “One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, one ring to bring them all, and in the darkness, bind them.” 

Erik stares. “You are an _insufferable_ nerd, Charles Xavier,” he says before lifting the other ring. “And we have _two_ rings.” 

“Did Peter teach you the word nerd?” 

“I spent most of my life in prison, not under a rock.” Erik huffs again and impatiently gestures to the ring. “Now, will you _please_ marry me?” 

“Go on then.” 

“Oh my God,” Erik mutters, but he can’t help but grin as he finally, finally, eases the ring onto Charles’ outstretched hand. When he looks up at him, Charles is grinning too, and when he slides the ring onto his finger, he’s glad to find they both fit perfectly with only the slightest adjustment on Charles’. 

“Stuck with me for life now, husband,” Charles says, eyes bright and seeming happier than he has been in years. 

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Erik assures him. 

Leaning in and sealing their marriage with a kiss is the easiest thing he’s ever done. 

**-o-o-o-**

_2022_

Every breath Quicksilver sucks in is more like a shallow wheeze. His skin is paler than ever, eyes sunken, hair greasy and the nosebleeds have stained the lower part of his face a dark pink. 

It’s a poison, developed on the spot by the Sentinels in response to his mutation. Charles says it’s only slightly, _slightly_ slower than his metabolic system and it’s led to this torturously slow death. It’s definitely death that’s rapidly approaching. Hard as Charles is trying, Erik knows he’s finding it nearly impossible to develop some sort of cure. 

“You don’t understand,” Charles had said at one point, looking frazzled, blue eyes wide and so determined. “You don’t. I have to fix this.” 

He does understand. Quicksilver’s been with them for over ten years now and this horrible, slow suffering is awful to bear witness to. Part of him wants to offer to just put him out of his misery. He could do it. He could. But the first time he’d thought about it, Charles had said ‘no’ so firmly, everyone in the house had been frozen for a few seconds, quite literally. 

“What we need,” Quicksilver rasps, “Is more time.”

“If only we had it,” Erik says. They’re taking it in turns, looking after him. It’s more like keeping vigil, waiting for him to die. 

“Someone out there must have a way to find more time. Mutation. Time travel. It’s in so many movies.”

“Mostly shit movies.” 

“Don’t you attack _Back to the Future_.”

“I sure as hell preferred their version of 2015, but there aren’t any DeLoreans around and if there was a mutant who could time travel, I think Charles would know about it.”

“Doesn’t have to be time travel exactly,” Quicksilver says. “Just, like, travelling…” His voice trails off into a coughing fit and blood speckles his lips. “What’s the difference between travelling between places and travelling through time?” 

“Lower risk of killing off your children by accident if you’re only travelling between places. And you risk making for a much shittier future if you travel through time.” 

Quicksilver just about huffs out something that might be a laugh. “Can’t get much shittier than this.” 

He’s not wrong, but Erik isn’t sure of what to say to that, so he keeps quiet. There’s no time travelling to fix this. It’s just more gibberish from Quicksilver, who doesn’t even seem to really know what he’s talking about, hasn’t from the moment he got back with a mumble of, “ _Sentinels got me_.” 

“Did’ya ever want kids?” Quicksilver asks out of the blue, some minutes later.

“Not particularly,” Erik admits, once he’s weighed the question up in his mind. “I never thought the world was a good place to raise a child. I would’ve liked to contribute to our species, I suppose, but I would’ve wanted the world to be a safe place for them first.”

Quicksilver falls quiet again. Then he asks, “Do you remember Magda Eisenhardt?” 

The question makes Erik stare at him for a long, long moment. It feels a bit like the world has suddenly stopped. Of course he remembers Magda Eisenhardt; he’d borrowed her surname just to remember her, occasionally, but she’d been engaged to be married and he’d had a goal to fulfil and it certainly wasn’t a time for anything more than a few secret nights in a motel room. 

“That’s a yes, then,” Quicksilver murmurs. He huffs out another laugh and closes his eyes. “God, she hated you. After she’d had a few, she’d always drone on about how you gave her the best and only sex she’d had in years.” He pauses, then says, “You’re my dad. My biological dad, anyway. And y’know, I wasn’t gonna tell you, but you’re not nearly as awful as you seemed on the news and I think I’d really hate myself if I died without saying it. I know it’s pretty selfish when I’m about to kick the bucket, but, God –” He breaks off and more coughs tear up his throat. 

Erik’s cold, all of a sudden, goosebumps prickling at his arms. “Thank you for telling me,” he says, the words sounding hollow to his own ears. “I’m sorry I didn’t know sooner.” 

A lot sooner. Why couldn’t he have known a lot sooner? How much would it have changed? 

“Told you. We need more time, man,” Peter says. He sighs. “Need more time.” 

It’s not something they have a steady supply of, that’s for sure. 

**-o-o-o-**

By December, they’re just four again. They burn Peter’s body to make sure Trask Industries can’t get their hands on him. He deserves better. 

“You deserved more time with him,” Charles says, aboard the Blackbird, thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand, over his ring, his knuckles, and all of the wrinkles. 

“We all need more time, full stop,” Erik says. The metal of the jet is cool and somewhat soothing against his head, but it does nothing to ease the grief. The world below them is burning. They’re rapidly losing safehouses. It’s all falling apart. They aren’t just hunting mutants any more. Now, they’re chasing down humans who merely carry the X-gene.

Their numbers dwindle by the day. 

“We’ll find a way to fix this,” Charles says, sounding determined, and who knows where he’s still pulling that bullshit from. Thin air, most likely. “We can do it. We’ll find more time, somehow.”

**-o-o-o-**

_2023_

Erik knows Charles must be hurting, must have felt the death of every other mutant who was with them up until this point. Part of him wants to ask how close they were to succeeding. Another part of him doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to be any more miserable than necessary in these last few moments. 

So, he clasps Charles’ hand tightly. He can feel their rings beneath their gloves and with the last of his strength, he gently warms up Charles’ because if he goes first, if he fades away moments before the Sentinels kill them, he doesn’t want Charles to feel alone. 

_My love_ , Charles thinks, and he smiles at him, with all that _hope_ in his eyes still. _I haven’t felt alone in sixty years._

That can’t be true, but it’s a nice thought and Erik manages the slightest of smiles in return. 

It isn’t long before the Sentinels are breaking through the door. He hears Bobby’s scream, knows Charles feels his last moments despite the fact he doesn’t flinch at all. Kitty sobs as she strains to hold onto Logan. Is there any point? Who knows. They won’t be here to find out, so maybe it doesn’t matter. He and Charles, they had a few more precious years together, like he’d said only minutes ago. They did their best.

The Sentinels are upon them within seconds of Bobby’s death, opening up their horrific faces to bring an end to them all. 

If he’d only chosen to be by Charles’ side sooner, how much more time –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! ♥


	2. thirty years

**-o-o-o-**

_2026_

The first few days after the diagnosis, they take the time to process the news together and don’t worry about much else aside from being with one another. 

The cottage is the ideal place to be. It’s only a handful of hours drive from the mansion and it’s where they usually spend their weekends, not weekdays, but that doesn’t matter right now. Nobody asks any questions at the mansion; Charles has been letting the rest of the faculty take the lead for a couple of years. They’re in their nineties, for crying out loud, so who would dare begrudge them a break? The two of them are getting too old for running a school, anyhow.

Erik has no doubt Charles knows what’s been on his mind, has been on his mind since the doctor had said those words most people dread. But he needs to say them aloud to breathe them into reality. Once he says them, he knows he’s all but sealed his fate. 

“I don’t want chemo,” Erik blurts. As soon as he speaks, Charles lifts the remote control and switches off the television. He’s resting against his chest, warm and comforting, and lowers the remote again as soon as the TV is off. The only other noise in their little sitting room is now the crackling fire, perfect for mid-January, but it’s not doing much to break the cold reality they’ve fallen into. 

“Okay.”

“I’m nearly one-hundred years old. I’d say I’ve had a pretty good innings. No point delaying the inevitable.”

“Okay.”

“And I don’t think I’d be able to pull off the bald look nearly as well as you, so…”

“Erik,” Charles says, his voice gentle. He tangles their fingers together. Their hands are so old and wrinkled now, but Erik likes that. He likes the reminder of how much they’ve been through and survived. The rings on their fingers touch and it feels right, the way it has for the last fifteen years. “I understand. It’s okay.” 

It’s not okay. It really isn’t. Erik swallows hard, but there’s suddenly a lump in his throat and swallowing doesn’t seem to dislodge it any. “It’s not okay,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to leave you.” Who’ll remind Charles to take all of his medications? Who’ll drag him out of his study at 2am and gently wake him through the night to tell him to roll over? These are things he wants to make sure are decided before he goes. _Somebody_ needs to fuss about Charles if he can’t. 

There’s not much Charles can say to that, he knows, but it’s nice when he rubs his thumb over the back of his hand. There are still so many things to discuss. He knows he doesn’t want to be in a hospice, cared for by strangers. He wants Charles to be by his side the entire time. He doesn’t want a flock of people around him saying goodbye when the end comes. Just Charles. All he needs is Charles. 

“I’ll be there,” Charles says, in response to his unspoken wish. “Until the very end, darling.”

That’s all Erik needs to know. Whatever the next six months bring, he knows they won’t be nearly as difficult if Charles is there with him, and he’ll try his hardest to make sure he lasts the entire six months, if not longer. Charles deserves that. He’s been by his side for the last thirty-three years, married to him for the last fifteen, and all of that, he’s sure, isn’t going to change as they approach the end of their story.

**-o-o-o-**

_2023_

It’s very obvious Logan can’t wrap his head around everything all at once. He leaves after Charles explains the situation with Erik – that they’re married, have been for the last twelve years, and have been running the school together for longer still. 

“I’m sure he’ll warm up to the idea,” Charles says brightly, picking up his reading glasses from the bedside table and then his book, which is, funnily enough, about time travel. 

Erik snorts and shakes his head. “Even if he doesn’t, it’s tough,” he says. “I won’t be going anywhere.” 

“Delighted to hear it, darling. Don’t worry, I don’t intend to kick you out. You’re more than welcome to stay.”

“So, did you finally satisfy your curiosity regarding the, ah, other future?” 

It only takes a moment for Charles’ expression to become more sombre. “I did,” he says. “Truly unpleasant. We’re very fortunate, even with the decline in mutant births.” ‘The decline’ is an understatement. Mutants are only born on Genosha, these days, but it’s better than not being born at all. A small grin makes its way onto Charles’ face and then he adds, “You were even more dramatic in the other timeline. You used the Statue of Liberty as a base of operations at one point.”

That startles a laugh out of him. He can’t help it. What he’d give just to have a _conversation_ with his other self. “The Statue of Liberty?” he repeats. “Fitting, I suppose. Very _me_. Give your tired and your poor and your troublesome mutants.” 

“You tried to turn all the humans into mutants and after that failed, you later tried to kill all the humans.”

“Oh.”

“Mhm.” 

Their eyes meet and for a moment, their expressions remain sombre and serious. Then they both burst out laughing and Charles’ eyes are crinkling in that way Erik so loves. There’s no need for telepathy to know they’re both thinking exactly the same thing. It’s not the fact he tried to kill the entire human race, because that’s really not funny at all. It’s because, in this timeline, as a doting grandfather, loving husband, and bumbling teacher, there’s no way he could ever be the same man. 

After they’ve calmed down, Erik heaves a sigh and relaxes back against the headboard, letting out one last chuckle before he speaks again. “Tell me everything you’ve found out, then,” he says. “I know you want to spill it all.”

Charles smiles, but warns him, “It’s not all pleasant.” 

“I assumed that was a given, considering our species was on the verge of extinction before Logan time travelled.”

“Well then,” Charles says, and he takes a deep breath before beginning to tell him everything he found out about the future that could’ve been. 

It’s so different, it’s hard to wrap his head around. He can’t imagine a world where Nina didn’t exist, even if she only lived for a short few years in this timeline. He can’t imagine only discovering his son’s existence days before his death. 

“So,” Erik says, staring up at the ceiling as he processes everything. “I suppose what we can conclude is that it was a _very_ good idea to break me out of the Pentagon.”

“That’s one thing we can conclude, certainly, although I’d argue that the better idea was perhaps my agreeing to join you in Genosha.”

Erik grins at him. “That was a pretty amazing idea, too,” he allows. Deadly serious, he adds, “But maybe the best idea of all was me dropping a stadium around the White House.” 

“And on me,” Charles huffs, scowling, then he hits Erik on the arm, just lightly, with his book. 

It only makes Erik laugh, and it only takes a moment for Charles to start chuckling, too.

**-o-o-o-**

_2020_

The cottage is perfect for them, they realised very quickly, which is why they began the process of buying it after just one visit. If it has any problems, it’s not as if they can’t afford to fix them. It has five bedrooms, enough for a study, a master bedroom, and plenty of leftover rooms for guests, be them great-grandchildren or other relatives or just friends looking for an escape from the mansion. It’s all one floor, which is perfect for Charles’ wheelchair and Erik’s complaining joints. There’s plenty of space for a garden, the kitchen is huge, and there’s even already a giant shed for Erik to do his crafting in.

‘Cottage’ isn’t really the right word to describe the house, but it sounds much more like a romantic getaway than ‘giant bungalow’ does. 

“We could retire here one day,” Charles says, fingers running over the lowered counters in the kitchen. That had been one of their own renovations; half of the kitchen is the perfect height for Charles, the other perfect for Erik. 

“As if you’ll ever retire,” Erik says fondly. They’ve already agreed, the cottage is more so they can have weekends away to themselves, without having to worry about what’s going on at the school. 

Charles beams at him. “You’ll never retire either,” he says. He’s not wrong. Teaching comes surprisingly naturally to Erik. He never thought he’d enjoy it so much, but one thing had led to another after they moved to the mansion from Genosha. He can’t imagine _not_ teaching History, and he sometimes does some one-on-one tutoring in various languages. It’s good. It’s _fun_. 

“But if we ever do,” Erik says, nodding his agreement with Charles’ earlier point. “This’ll be the perfect place for it.” 

Really, it doesn’t matter where they go, if they ever go to permanently live somewhere other than the mansion again. As long as they’re together, Erik will be content, and he suspects Charles will be too.

**-o-o-o-**

_2017_

When he sees the mug in Erik’s hand, Charles laughs, not unkindly, but with fond amusement.

“We really do need to build you a shelf for all of those mugs,” he comments, rolling across the staff room and holding out a hand as he asks, “May I?” Erik obliges and hands it over. It’s similar to his other ‘Best Teacher’ mugs, because there are only so many varieties in New York, but it’s no less special. “Who gave you this one?” Charles asks, studying the mug as if it might give him some sort of hint.

“Nicholas,” Erik answers, taking the mug back before lifting it to his mouth. It always makes him feel so pleased, so loved, to have received yet another gift from a student. Charles has plenty of his own, but he seems even happier when Erik receives yet another. There’s just something satisfying about it because when he first became a teacher, he assumed most of the students would hate him. “I’m teaching him Polish.” 

“Ah, yes,” Charles says, nodding. The clarification isn’t really necessary. Somehow, Charles manages to remember every single student at the school, whether he teaches them or not. “It’s nice. You’re so loved, darling.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Erik asks, cracking a grin. He really can’t believe it, most days. 

“You’re a wonderful, patient teacher. I know I’m not _supposed_ to reveal what the student feedback forms say, but the students often go on about how engaging your lessons are and how understanding you are when it comes to struggling with homework or the content in class.” Charles beams at him. “I knew you’d make a wonderful teacher.” 

“Some of them get so anxious about handing in homework late or incomplete. School shouldn’t be stressful,” Erik says, which is the truth. That’s his approach to teaching; he wants the kids to actually _enjoy_ learning. He hates the thought of anyone feeling anxious and terrified because they haven’t done enough, or think they haven’t. 

It took him _years_ to convince his own brain that his failures did not always mean somebody would die, and many conversations with Charles to realise his mother’s death was not his fault. All children should be expected to do is their best and when they struggle, they should be reassured and encouraged. It’s that simple, really, and one of the reasons he loves teaching so much is because he can help to ensure no child goes to sleep worried they aren’t good enough.

Charles rolls closer and smiles at him and Erik leans in to kiss him, because that’s often what Charles wants when he gives him that innocent look. “You’re incredibly sexy when you talk about teaching like that,” he says when he pulls away. “Actually, if I recall correctly, we both have this afternoon free and I _think_ I need your help teaching me something in the bedroom…” His eyebrows raise, expression coy, and Erik chuckles. 

“Lead the way, husband dearest,” he says, gesturing to the door so that Charles will lead the way. He puts his mug in the sink and follows after him. 

**-o-o-o-**

_2015_

Everything is decorated beautifully. It’s possible the mansion has never looked better. The decorations were made by the school’s youngest children and it’s reflected in the paper chains, the crayon drawings, and the misspellings on some of the handmade signs, but it’s beautiful and perfect because of course Charles’ wedding should be tied to the school itself. Of course the children deserve the opportunity to play a part, this time around.

The first time around had been elopement, which was good fun, but it made for a very tiny ceremony. 

“I told you the cake would be lovely,” Charles says, looking at the cake the students who study cookery have made for them. It’s an impressive size, but it does need to feed most of the school, so that’s understandable. 

“Excuse me for thinking it’d be even better to have a cake from a professional baker,” Erik says. He has to grin though. The students have done an excellent job, even managing to give the cake-topper version of Charles a tiny wheelchair and himself, a cape. He hasn’t worn a cape (in public) in nearly thirty years, but he much prefers the little figurine wearing one, because it makes him look all the more fashionable.

Charles snorts and says, “Darling, there’s never been anything fashionable about a cape.”

“Now, Schatz, we both know that’s simply not true. My capes have always been fashionable.”

“Certainly not that magenta monstrosity.” 

“Take that back.”

“Absolutely not.”

“The wedding’s off.”

“Unfortunately for you, we’re already married.” Charles smiles at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And wouldn’t we hate for all of this effort to go to waste?” he asks. 

Erik gives a mock-grumble. “Suppose we have to think of the children,” he says. He drops a kiss on the top of Charles’ smooth head. “And there’s nothing unfortunate about being married to you, except for you insulting my capes. And your sometimes questionable politics.” 

“Such a romantic,” Charles teases. 

“For you, Charles, always.”

**-o-o-o-**

_2011_

The ring box sits looking perfectly innocent on his pillow, open, and Erik looks from it to Charles, who is reading on his Kindle as if he isn’t, quite clearly, trying to make some grand romantic gesture. 

“Is this a proposal?” Erik asks, moving towards the bed and picking up the ring box. 

“You were taking your time asking, so I thought I’d get on with it,” Charles says without looking up. “I didn’t think there was any need for a fuss.”

Erik huffs. The man has no patience. It’s only been days since same-sex marriage was legalised in New York. “That’s why I was taking my time. I wanted to make a fuss,” he says. All of his plans seem completely inadequate. But at least he didn’t just plop a ring box on a pillow and call it a day. “You have to actually say the words, you know. And look at you, just looking at your Kindle.” He tuts as he sits down on the edge of the mattress and drops the box back on the pillow. “You’re worse than the kids.” 

“Oh, sorry,” Charles says, with a sly grin. He puts the Kindle aside and plucks the ring from the box, then holds it aloft. “I’d get down on one knee, but that’s not really convenient for me. Erik Lehnsherr, will you marry me?” 

“Only if you don’t intend to force me to sign a prenup. I want to take you for every penny if we get divorced.” Erik can’t help but grin. He’ll finally be able to call Charles his _husband_.

“Fair,” Charles says, grinning right back at him. “I’ll take that as a yes. Here you go then.” He takes Erik’s hand and drops the ring into the palm of it. “I was thinking we should get married this Friday. No fuss. Before they try to make it illegal again or something.” 

“Someone’s keen,” Erik jokes. He slides the ring onto his finger, making sure it fits perfectly. It doesn’t need much of an adjustment and it’s straightforward enough for him to do, of course.

“I’ve waited nearly twenty years. I don’t fancy waiting much longer.”

“Friday it is,” Erik agrees. He presses a kiss to Charles’ temple and settles on his side of the bed. “What were you reading?” he asks. “A romance novel? Were you trying to find inspiration?” 

“Nothing. I just knew it’d irritate you if you thought I was reading something in the middle of my proposal.” 

“You’re such a prankster.” 

“I try my best,” Charles says. He shuffles closer and makes himself comfortable. This is their standard routine, proposal aside. With a wave of his fingers, Erik switches off the lights. “We can find some random witnesses.” 

“Random witnesses sound ideal,” Erik agrees. All that really matters is that the two of them are there and getting _married_. “Love you,” he says, kissing the top of Charles’ head again.

“Love you too,” Charles murmurs back. Then he adds, “Husband-to-be.” 

Those words make Erik feel so warm and content. When he falls asleep, it’s with a happy smile tugging at his lips, secure in the knowledge that by the end of the week, Charles is finally, legally, going to be his husband. 

**-o-o-o-**

A proposal of his own the night before only seems fair. He arranges a picnic for the two of them on the terrace, which isn’t quite the same terrace as the one Charles first helped him find his point between rage and serenity, but during the rebuild, they made sure it was as accurate to the original as possible.

Charles cries when he gets down on one knee. 

“You’re a sap,” he tells Erik, wiping at his eyes. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Erik says. 

The ring is a perfect fit and Charles is a perfect fit for him. Erik wouldn’t have it any other way. 

**-o-o-o-**

_2007_

The existence of the collars has been a point of contention between him and Charles for years now, but Erik has to admit, this is a win. There’s still a long way to go, but this is an excellent start. 

“So, yes. It’ll be effective as soon as possible. The collars will only be able to be used on prosecuted and violent mutant criminals,” Charles says. It sounds, over the phone line, as if the journalists are still asking questions, but Charles’ voice is still audible to Erik. “It should be on the news.” 

“I thought it best not to watch in case I threw a remote through the television or something,” Erik admits. He’s relieved. Honestly, he’d thought Charles wasn’t going to have much success at all. 

“I told you it’d be fine,” Charles says. “You owe me an apology, I think.”

“Terribly sorry I didn’t have faith in your ability to convince the government those collars are harmful to the general population of mutants,” Erik says. “I can’t help being a sceptic, Charles. The government doesn’t have the greatest track record.” 

“This is only the start, anyway. There’s more to come. I won’t stop until we have equality for all mutants,” Charles says. “No, thank you, I’m done answering questions,” he says as an aside to someone who sounds like a distant mumble to Erik. 

“I never thought I’d be glad to see the day you dove back into politics. You’ve done well, Charles,” Erik says, unafraid to be honest. “Maybe next time I’ll join you.” 

“Well, they’ll certainly uphold the pardon. You should join me. You’re rather good at the politics game. You were wonderful on Genosha,” Charles says. Whenever he talks about the island, fondness and longing always tinges his voice, but moving to the mansion wasn’t a bad choice. World politics are easier to interact with in the US and Charles loves teaching at the school again. Besides, they get to see Luna more often, this way, too. All in all, the benefits outweigh the cons. 

“I will. It’ll be fun. You and I, fighting for mutant rights together. If only it’d been that way from the beginning,” Erik says. 

“If only. There’s no Sentinels, so at least we know we’re doing considerably better than in that other timeline. Anyway, I should go. I’d like to be home by this evening.”

“Oh, certainly. Safe travels home, Schatz. The cat and I are waiting for you.” 

**-o-o-o-**

_2002_

Picard is a very patient cat and it’s a good job, because one of Luna’s favourite activities, on the weekends she stays at their house, is dressing him up. She adores her occasional weekend trips to Genosha, and she especially adores the cat, even if she spends a fair bit of time making him look rather silly. 

“Look, Grandpa,” she says, bursting into the kitchen with all the excitement of a five-year-old. Looking very sorry for himself, Picard follows her. He’s wearing a cape. “Picard’s a _superhero_!” 

“Oh, very nice, darling,” Erik says, amused, as he always is, by Luna’s enthusiasm for dressing up the cat. “Shall we take a picture and take it off before your grandad gets back?” Charles is protective of their cat and insists, quite regularly, that he shouldn’t be dressed up as anything, even if he doesn’t mind it. 

“Yes!” Luna scrambles back out of the kitchen and returns a moment later, her tongue poking out as she tries to figure out how to switch on the camera. She picks Picard up and plops him on the table. “Stay still,” she tells him firmly. She finally switches it on and sits on the opposite side of the table. A moment later, there’s a click and the shutter on the camera snaps. “Perfect!” she announces, turning the camera to show Erik. It’s a little blurry, but one of her best attempts at photography yet. Picard doesn’t look best pleased, so with a chuckle, he reaches to free him from the cape. 

“Excellent, sweetheart. Maybe let’s give Picard a break now,” he suggests, putting the cat down on the floor. He slinks off with another meow, this one of agreement, probably. 

The sound of the front door opening draws all of their attention. “Picard’s looking sorry for himself,” Charles says as he rolls through to the kitchen. He looks amused. “What was he dressed as today?”

“A superhero,” Luna says, bringing the camera over to show Charles. “Like Daddy, except Daddy doesn’t wear a cape, ‘cause he says it wouldn’t be as – as – air-o-die-manic.” 

“Aerodynamic,” Charles says, beaming at her. “Very close. And yes, there aren’t many cape-wearing heroes around these days, except in comic books.”

“And Aunt Roro sometimes wears one,” Luna informs him. Storm, in other words, but they don’t seem to use their ‘superhero names’ around Luna. 

“And Aunt Roro,” Charles agrees. _And you in the bedroom_ , he directs at Erik, which makes him nearly choke on his coffee. 

_Not in front of our grandchild, Charles_ , he thinks back, scandalised, cheeks going pink. 

_I didn’t say it out loud_ , Charles replies, all innocence, blue eyes wide.

Erik just gives him the sternest look he can muster up, his cheeks still warm. None the wiser, Luna begins excitedly telling Charles all about her morning while he was doing his volunteering at the library. 

**-o-o-o-**

_1999 (...and 2000)_

New Year is the one time of year everyone on Genosha celebrates. They have such a mix of religions and cultural backgrounds on the island that they try to avoid commercialising too many holidays, but New Year is different. They always have a fireworks display and the few bars on Genosha are allowed to stay open even later and play music until the early hours of the morning. 

This is their seventh New Year together. Picard is safe at home and thankfully, he doesn’t mind the fireworks. Erik only has to fuss about Charles. “Are you sure you’re warm enough?” he asks Charles, double-checking the blanket won’t fall. He has his gloves on and a hat and a scarf, so he’s surely warm enough, but it’s best to be entirely certain. 

“Yes, darling, I’m warm enough,” Charles assures him, hands tight around the flask of tea he’s brought with him. He hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol in six years and Erik, in solidarity, hasn’t either. They won’t even make an exception for special events. Tea and coffee are sufficient. “Can you believe it’ll be a whole new millennium?” he asks. He raises the flask to his lips and takes a sip. 

“No,” Erik says, rubbing his hands together as he sits on his folding chair next to Charles. There are other people all around the beach, some on blankets, some on chairs, all waiting for the countdown to begin. “I thought the world would definitely end before we reached the year 2000.” 

“How morbid,” Charles teases. 

“Charles, we’ve almost seen the world end a ridiculous amount of times.” 

“Ah, but we’re always so good at making sure it _doesn’t_ end,” Charles says. He offers the flask and Erik takes it to have a sip himself. “I say good. It’s mostly sheer luck.” 

“Dumb luck,” Erik snorts, passing the flask back once he’s finished. 

“Same thing,” Charles says, waving a hand at him. 

The atmosphere is changing, people beginning to buzz with excitement as the final countdown approaches. There are some ridiculous conspiracy theories that the world will end because computer clocks won’t be able to handle the change to ‘2000’, but Genosha isn’t as reliant on computers as the rest of the world. Here, they’re all just looking forward to the new beginning a new year brings with it. 

The chant from ten to one begins. “I’m glad you’re here, Charles,” Erik says, looking towards him again. “The last few years have been some of the best of my life.” 

Charles’ expression is soft. “Of mine, too,” he says. “Happy New Year, darling.”

The sky lights up with fireworks, at least a dozen different colours, and everyone begins to cheer. There’s no rhyme or reason to the pattern of the fireworks. They aren’t coordinated like the displays in some cities are, but they’re well-loved across the island nonetheless.

A light blue firework bursts overhead and Erik leans in to capture Charles’ lips with his. He doesn’t need a new beginning, to be honest, because what he has here is amazing. He just needs to know he’s about to start yet another year by Charles’ side. 

**-o-o-o-**

_1997_

There’s no real fanfare to the announcement of Luna’s birth. Peter is quite calm about the whole thing, calling in the middle of the night to say he and Crystal had a healthy, beautiful little girl, called Luna Maximoff. 

Erik and Charles don’t even need to discuss it. The next day, as soon as Picard is safe at a neighbour’s house, they fly to New York for a visit. 

It does a very funny thing to Erik’s stomach, seeing Charles cradling Luna as if she’s the most precious thing in the world. Erik’s already had his turn. Charles is so careful with her and is following Crystal’s instructions exactly, making sure the baby’s head is well-supported. Understandably, she’s now gone to have a nap. “I’ve never really held a baby before,” Charles admits, looking awed as the sleeping baby wraps her hand around his finger. “She’s so small.”

“Babies are. It’d be a bit weird if they popped out fully grown, Professor,” Erik teases. 

“Hush, you,” Charles tuts, his thumb gently stroking over the back of Luna’s tiny hand. “So soft as well. Now I know what people mean when they talk about how soft babies are.” 

“Does she have your stamp of approval, Grandpa Charles?” Peter asks. He’s grinning like a loon. Actually, he hasn’t stopped grinning the entire time they’ve been here. 

Charles blinks in surprise. “Grandpa?” he echoes. 

“Well. Or grandad, I guess. Whatever you’d prefer,” Peter says, shrugging. “You can never have too many grandparents.” 

Charles is blinking again and Erik realises his eyes are bright with moisture a moment later, so he reaches to pat his shoulder gently. “Grandad Charles sounds much better, I think,” Charles says, voice tight with emotion. “Erik can be a grandpa.” 

Grinning, Erik squeezes Charles’ shoulder. He’s a _grandpa_. Funny, when five years ago he hadn’t even known he was a father to a living person. 

“Grandad Charles and Grandpa Erik,” Peter says. He gives a nod of approval and grins at them again. “She’ll love you both, you know. I can tell she already has you wrapped around her tiny fingers.”

“As if you aren’t already, too,” Erik says.

Peter shrugs. “There’s no shame in it. Look how cute she is.” 

The baby shifts and yawns, her arms lifting. For a moment, Charles looks panicked, like he’s worried the baby might try somersaulting out of his arms. But then Luna relaxes and Charles relaxes as well, and when he lifts his head, he’s beaming. “She’s happy,” he says. “I can feel it.”

Honestly, Erik wants her to always be happy. He’d rip the world apart for this tiny being and he suspects Charles wouldn’t need much convincing to do the same. 

_No convincing at all_ , Charles says, entirely serious. He smiles down at Luna, who keeps on sleeping peacefully, oblivious, for now, to just how loved she is. 

**-o-o-o-**

_1994_

Life on Genosha is as near to perfect as it’s ever going to be, with Charles here. The road to Charles’ recovery hadn’t been an easy one, his mere presence had led to tension amongst the residents, and the two of them had to figure out exactly how to live together again, but all in all, Erik has never been happier. 

Next week, they’re getting a cat. A kitten, actually. _A kitten_. Even at his most domestic, the closest to a pet Erik had ever had was some chickens. _A kitten_ is something else entirely. It’s only happening thanks to one of the other residents of Genosha not neutering their cats (Erik made sure to write it into law that from now on, all pets must be neutered to live on their island). They’ve already chosen his name (Picard) and started collecting supplies for their new family member.

“Jean’s alive.”

Cold dismay spreads through Erik’s chest as he turns to look at Charles, who looks as if he’s seen a ghost. Given his claim, it’s entirely possible he has, but it’d have to be a ghostly hallucination, because Jean is very much dead. She has been for the last two years. 

They were doing so well. Erik really thought Charles was beginning to process his grief.

He swallows hard and forces himself to keep staring at his – well, they haven’t really labelled it. Boyfriend, he supposes, but it sounds so childish a word. Partner is a better fit. “Charles,” he starts, but it sounds strangled to his own ears, so he tries again with, “She’s gone.” 

“No, I’m not – Erik. That was Hank on the phone. Jean’s at the school. She’s fine.” 

Erik keeps staring and staring and struggling to understand _how_. But the phone had been ringing only twenty minutes before and if Charles has been on the phone to Hank this entire time, then it makes sense, because Hank wouldn’t lie.

It makes a tiny bit of sense. It’s mostly insane.

“It could be a trick,” he says. “One of those things, back again.” 

“It’s not. It’s her. It’s definitely her. Hank’s already ran tests,” Charles says, and he sounds so hopeful, and his eyes are filled with more light than they have been in the last year. “Logan’s there too. You remember Logan?” 

Of course he remembers Logan. In a way, it feels like the beginning of the end, because what is there to keep Charles here, if everything is going back to normal back home? “So,” Erik says and then he swallows hard a second time. “I’m assuming you’d like me to – arrange transportation back home for you.” 

Now Charles is undoubtedly the one staring at him. “What? No. My home is here with you, Erik. You and the bloody cat we’re getting next week. But Jean’s… alive,” he says. He huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “She’s alive. She’s okay.” 

It only takes a moment for Erik to realise Charles isn’t thinking the mansion will be more forgiving with Jean back. He’s just relieved Jean is okay.

“We could still visit,” Erik suggests, once he’s allowed the relief to flood through him. Charles isn’t leaving. “I’m sure you’d like to see them all. It’s been a while.”

“Maybe,” Charles says, which is a ‘no’. It’s always ‘maybe’, but it’s really always ‘no’. 

“Charles,” Erik says, voice gentle again. It’s not about him. He wants Charles here with him, yes, and he’s happier than ever, but what’s more important is that _Charles_ is happy. “I’m sure they’d like to see you. You can’t honestly think they’re still angry with you. Hank calls at least once a week.” 

Charles is quiet, except for mumbling a noncommittal, “Mhm.” 

“You shouldn’t still be angry at yourself, either. You made mistakes, but you were only doing what you thought was right,” Erik says. “They’d like to see you, Charles. I know they would. Especially Jean. You said yourself she forgave you in those last few moments.”

“This is my home,” Charles says and Erik can’t help the fond smile he gives him. 

“This can be your home and you can still miss the mansion and the people in it, Charles.” 

Charles hesitates. “Maybe after the cat is settled,” he finally says. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Erik warns him. He gets to his feet and makes his way over to Charles to kiss him, short and sweet. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be with you the entire time.”

“I know you will,” Charles says, already sounding more confident. He lets out a breath and adds, probably not even intended for Erik’s ears, “Everything will be fine.” 

**-o-o-o-**

The younger children all scream in excitement the moment they see Charles and then they’re all clamouring around, all trying to get a chance to give a personal greeting. The older ones are more patient, some of them entirely disinterested, but one thing is very obvious: Charles has been missed.

Erik isn’t bothered that nobody pays him much attention. This isn’t about him. He’s just Charles’ companion in all of this. 

“Uh. Hey.”

When Erik turns, Peter is suddenly standing there, shifting on the spot. He’s hardly changed in the last twenty years. “Hey?” Erik says in return, at a loss as to why the kid is talking to him and not Charles, the one he’s been living and working alongside for the last decade. “Don’t you want to say ‘hey’ to Charles?”

“No. Um. There’s been something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about for like, the last ten years, so, I figured I should probably hurry up and blurt it out before you and the Professor leave again.” Peter is still shifting on the spot, looking incredibly awkward. All Erik can do is stare at him, waiting expectantly. “So, uh.” He clears his throat. “Here’s the thing. Like, nearly forty years ago, you and my mom, uh, did the deed. So. You and my mom are… my dad and my mom.” 

Erik stares. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Charles watching him over the head of a small child. Erik can’t quite find any words to react with. 

“Uh. Her name’s Magda. And I’m pretty sure she’s not lying ‘cause that wouldn’t be cool and when she told me you were like, the most wanted mutant terrorist on the planet so it’s not the sort of thing you tell your kid just as a joke. So…”

Distantly, Erik wonders if it’s too soon to hop back on the jet to Genosha. His mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, but still, no words come out. 

“Please say something,” Peter says, and it’s then Erik realises his expression is pained. Of course it’s pained. The kid (not a kid, he’s nearly forty, but he looks so young and innocent) has been holding the information in for what, twenty years? Half of his life? 

He has a _son_. Erik releases a shaky breath and raises a hand to scrub at his face. “That’s…” he starts, but everything he might want to say sounds inadequate. “That’s… wonderful. Thank you for telling me. I wish – I’d known sooner but –” He studies Peter, seeing things he’d never realised were present before. Their eyes are the same shape. “Thank you,” he repeats. “We should – should we go inside? We can talk. About everything and what this means.”

Because surely, if Peter’s told him, that means he wants some sort of relationship, right? He doesn’t want him to just pretend like nothing’s changed?

Peter exhales. “Yeah, I’d like that,” he says, and a moment later he’s grinning and standing right next to him, hand at his neck. “This is quickest. Don’t want you getting whiplash.” 

He catches Charles smiling over at the two of them. He suspects he’s known a good while longer than he has, but he can’t find it in himself to be annoyed. He’s just glad he finally knows, even if there’s plenty yet to figure out.

Whiplash is the least of his concerns, so he just snorts and says to Peter, “Let’s go.” 

**-o-o-o-**

_1993_

“I can’t come with you.”

Erik’s hand freezes over his bishop and he carefully avoids looking up at Charles. “And why is that?” he asks, when he’s certain his voice will hold steady. This is their third game, and the first time Charles has referred to the offer he started this meeting with.

There’s no response immediately, and that’s enough to coax Erik into looking up at Charles, but Charles isn’t looking back at him. His gaze has drifted off, and he’s staring at the Eiffel Tower. “I’m not ready,” he answers simply.

Floored, Erik’s brow comes down into a deep frown. “Where are you going to go, then?”

After another agonising silence, Charles turns his eyes back to look at Erik. The sadness in those blue eyes is almost overwhelming, and Charles huffs out a pitiful excuse for a laugh before he says, “I don’t know.”

All Erik wants to do is give Charles a home and drag him out of this… whatever this is. Depression triggered by the weight of his grief, he’d guess, but he also saw his old friend slip a generous amount of alcohol into his coffee from a hip flask. “Charles…” He’s at a loss. The games had been going so well, he’d never really considered the possibility Charles might say ‘no’. He takes a deep breath and says, “You can reach me. I’ll hear you. Anywhere.”

Charles blinks at him and then reaches over the table, to briefly cover Erik’s hand. “I can reach you,” he agrees.

They finish their game and Charles leaves, but Erik doesn’t get up from the table until the metal in Charles’ wheelchair vanishes from his awareness.

All he can do is hope he’s put enough pieces in place to somehow save Charles from himself. 

**-o-o-o-**

There are rumours about Charles’ whereabouts and Erik keeps in contact with Hank, because it’s to him Charles sends the occasional postcard. He needs to know where Charles is, needs to know he hasn’t drunk himself to death or something _else_ he won’t even let himself vocalise properly.

But… in the end, Hank has nothing to do with it. Like he said he could, Charles reaches out just a few months after Paris, and his mental voice is strained and pained, filled with a sadness Erik hates to associate with his old friend.

_Erik. I need help._

**-o-o-o-**

They meet in Paris again and when Charles sees him approaching the cafe, he smiles a watery smile. 

“I think I’d like to take you up on your offer,” is the first thing Charles says. 

A weight lifts from Erik’s chest and it’s easy to smile back at Charles. He doesn’t try to convince himself it’s going to be easy. Hank has made it clear that dragging Charles out of the bottle is a challenge, but at least Charles seems open to beginning the journey to sobriety and happiness again. 

Finally, for the first time in a long time, Erik feels like he has a chance at having a true happily ever after with Charles. **-**

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are much appreciated! ♥


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